


Home Is Where The Heart Is

by stantheshirehorse



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 21:44:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17885750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stantheshirehorse/pseuds/stantheshirehorse
Summary: What if Arthur is not the first person to get sick, but Mary Linton is? He promises her he'll look after her daughter.





	Home Is Where The Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> This is very fluffy little oneshot but also the first thing I have written for RDR2 and the first thing I have uploaded 
> 
> Set sometime (?) before the botched bank robbery and Guarma but kind of in a limbo as to when

"It ain't much but...it's somethin'."  
"Thank you, Mr Morgan."  
"Oh, please. None o' that. Arthur."  
Unable to say any more, Elizabeth Linton just nods with her lips pressed together, partly in a smile, mostly to stop herself crying.  
"You just...you just get yourself settled, get some rest. Miss Grimshaw will look after you. I need to go an'...sort out some things." Arthur's eyes glance over her. "You gonna be okay?"  
She nods as she sits on the side of the canvas cot. "Thank you, Mr- Arthur."  
He offers her a brief, hopefully reassuring but probably not, smile, and strides off.  
"Is she stayin' in your tent, Arthur?" Micah asks.  
"Not now, Micah."  
"Very generous of you. Sharing your bed like that-"  
"I said shut up you son of a bitch."  
Micah, infuriatingly, just laughs. "No need to get so touchy, cowpoke."  
Arthur leaves him with a dismissive hand. He glances over to his tent and sees Miss Grimshaw and Abigail sat with Elizabeth and feels himself relax, relieved she's getting help from people who know how to help her.  
"Is that young Miss Linton?" Hosea asks, appearing from nowhere.  
"Yeah." Arthur scuffs the dirt with the toe of his boot.  
"I'm sorry, Arthur." Hosea says, with his kind wisdom.  
"I'm more sorry for her." Arthur turns to the closest he ever had to a father figure. "This ain't no life for her, Hosea."  
"Neither's a brothel or a workhouse." Hosea says calmly. "I thought Mary's father had money?"  
"Had it, yeah. Gambled, or, drank it all away when he was livin'. Then Mary and her brother had to pay off his debts when he was dead."  
"Where is Mary's brother?"  
"Abroad. Left before Mary got sick. Mary sent word but no idea if he got it. So Elizabeth's been left with no-one."  
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Hosea says wryly with a small smile, before wandering off. "Ah, Herr Strauss..."  
Arthur watches him go and chews over that.

  
He's neither surprised that Mary contacted him, nor sure why. A strange inevitability. He's not sure he believes in fate. Perhaps it just seems to make sense because of the recent letters.

None of which disclosed to him the fact she had a daughter.

He supposes he understands why. His and Mary's rekindled friendship was tentative and rocky at best and a bombshell like that would just about blast it apart. Not that there is any suggestion that Elizabeth is his. As Mary said in her letter, their love was never confirmed in that way. But with Barry dead, when the two of them were together, when they went to see that theatre show in Saint Denis, it was like nothing was different to how it was before. This young frightened thing is a reminder, living proof of Mary's life, without him.

And by God does she look like her.

Now she is a reminder that Mary's gone from his life. Again. Her death hit him just about as hard as expected. Tuberculosis. A cruel way to go. And Mary ain't ever done anything to deserve it. He's not a religious man but he does have a tendency to the idea of fairness and retribution. Mary ain't done nothing wrong, except perhaps not following her heart.  
But it was her lungs that betrayed her. Black lungs and red-stained handkerchiefs. Skin as white as bed sheets. Blue lips.  
His last sight of the woman he loved flashes through his mind. He saw her towards the end, when it was almost peaceful. Poor Elizabeth had to watch her mother slowly die. Had to care for her and know it was futile and continue doing so anyway until the inevitable happened. Had to sit through the blood and the sweat, the coughing and the fever. She had to be her mother's strength and her own.  
Violence ain't just shooting guns. Violence is biology and disease and bodies failing you.

Arthur glances over to his tent again. Miss Grimshaw has gently pulled Elizabeth to her feet to wipe away her tears, and Abigail is fiddling with the tent canvas. The sheet of dull green cascades down and obscures the three of them from view.  
"Arthur!"  
Dutch's voice cuts through his reverie, brings him back to this violent present.  
"Yeah, Dutch..." He wanders over to where he and Hosea are sat playing cards.  
"Is Miss Linton settling in okay?" He asks.  
"I think so. Miss Grimshaw's looking after her." Arthur groans slightly as he lowers himself into a chair. It's been a hell of a few days.  
"And how long will Miss Linton be with us?"  
Arthur sighs. He had wondered when this conversation was coming. "Ah, I don't know Dutch. She ain't really got many options right now."  
"That's fine, that's fine," Dutch says, leaning back. "Just wondering." He puffs on his cigar. "Can she shoot?"  
Arthur snorts. "No."  
"Ride?"  
"No."  
"Act?"  
"Geez Dutch I don't know. I ain't been tryin' to get her to recite poems. She just lost her mother, stop tryin' to figure out if she's useful."  
"That's exactly what I am trying to do, is she useful?"  
"Is that what you were considerin' when you took me in?"  
"Yes, and you were," Dutch says without hesitating. "What can she do?"  
"She...went to a rich boarding school," Arthur says giving up and humouring him.  
"Ah, so she can speak French," Hosea supplies helpfully.  
Dutch gestures to him. "There you go."  
"French. And what's French goin' to help us with, exactly?"  
"We're just coming to a very precarious time in our career, Arthur," Dutch says. "We need to be considerate of who we have in our ranks."  
"I didn't see this much fuss with Kieran."  
"And look what happened to him." Dutch says, too gravely for his liking.  
"I don't intend for her to stay long. Just until her brother comes back or we find her someplace to go."  
"Of course, of course," Hosea says, diffusing the tension between them. "Now, Arthur, are you in for the next round of cards?"  
"Oh, Arthur knows he ain't got a chance against me," Dutch teases. It eases the strain between them, and makes Arthur feel like when he was young.  
Just like when he was young, he takes the bait. "I can too, just you watch."

Elizabeth has his tent and he sure as shit ain't sharing with anyone else, "brothers" or not.  
"You ain't getting in my bed, Morgan."  
"Shut your face, Marston."  
He settles himself down at the bottom of a tree, his hat pulled down over his face. It's spring and warm enough. Nonetheless, Miss Grimshaw throws a blanket over him on her way past. He thanks her with a raised hand and instead uses it as a protective layer between him and the dirt and twigs, and lies back, looking up at the stars. He tries to tell himself that this is the life, this is the real American freedom he's been craving, but in all honesty, he's grown used to a bed.  
He won't tell any of the others that. He can just hear Micah's voice telling him he's gone soft.  
A sound startles him, he's ashamed to say more than it would do in a tent. But it ain't a rattlesnake or a rodent. He leans up, and realises it's Uncle's snoring, from under the cartwheel he favours over the actual tent he has. He wonders if Grimshaw and Pearson even bother setting one up for him anymore.  
He settles back and traces patterns in the stars as he drifts asleep.

"Miss Linton? Er...Miss Linton?"  
Arthur stands awkwardly outside his tent the next morning. He glances about him, self-consciously aware of how his loitering outside his/her tent, hollering her name, looks.  
He's relieved when one half of the canvas is pushed aside.  
"Good morning, Mr Morgan."  
"Good mornin', Miss Linton," he says, ducking into the tent, too awkward himself to correct her on his name, "I, err, I just wanted to make sure you're doing okay."  
"Miss Grimshaw and Mrs Marston have been ever so kind." She says, perfectly politely and formally. He notes her accent, more refined than her mother's, definitely more than his. He puts it down to her boarding school education. He supposes her clipped and careful words are a product of that too.  
He notices she's in less fine clothes. Hers have been hung from a tent pole to protect them. Others of her items have been scattered about. He can tell that Miss Grimshaw has been in here. It's far more homely and with far more feminine touches than when he is left to his own devices. It already even smells better.  
Her eyes land on the same things as she catches him looking around. "I'm sorry, I'll pack my things away. Miss Grimshaw said that she's going to look into setting me up a tent of my own, or perhaps my sharing with Mrs Adler."  
"No, no, it's alright. I was just admirin' how much nicer the place looks," he smiles at her crookedly.  
She smiles a bit, relieved, then quickly looks away.  
He thinks he might intimidate her. He is far taller and broader than her slim frame, and especially so in this cramped tent. He is far gruffer than any of her gentlemen friends from the city as well, he imagines. He ain't a gentleman at all. He scratches at his beard self-consciously.  
It's a bit awkward as neither of them are sure what to say next. Thankfully, Miss Grimshaw bustles in.  
"Oh, Mr Morgan! Good morning."  
"Good mornin', Miss Grimshaw."  
"I was just bringing Miss Linton some breakfast," she bustles past and puts a steaming cup of coffee and a hot plate of eggs on the nightstand. She turns and looks at Arthur, hands on her hips. "Ain't you got some place to be? Some fool's errand to run?"  
"Well, I..." He feels himself blushing, as if she is accusing him of something. But as she jumps down his throat and starts berating him before he can even answer, he catches a small smile tugging at Elizabeth's lips, and he gets the sense that this is for her benefit rather than his or Miss Grimshaw's health.  
"Some debts to collect? Men to shoot? Poor deer to hunt?"  
"Well thems poor deer is what's keeping you fed!" he returns good-naturedly.  
"Well go out and feed us then! Me and Miss Linton have got a busy mornin' ahead. We're going to be helping Karen and Tilly with the laundry, then Mr Pearson with cooking at lunch time. And then Abigail asked if you wouldn't mind entertainin' young Jack this afternoon?"  
"Oh, yes," a bigger smile stretches Elizabeth's lips.  
"Good, I'm sure that'll be a mighty help," Miss Grimshaw says appreciatively. She turns her look on Arthur, as if realising he is still there. "And what are you still doin' here? I thought I told you to go on and get huntin'. Let's leave this young lady to enjoy her breakfast." She shoos him out of the tent, practically pushing him. Great strength in that woman. "You just come find me when you're ready, Miss Linton!" Grimshaw calls over her shoulder as they step out into the sun.  
Out of the tent and Elizabeth's earshot, Arthur gently takes Miss Grimshaw to one side.  
"Take it easy on her. Poor girl's been through a lot."  
Miss Grimshaw swats him on the arm. "I don't need empathy lessons from you, Arthur Morgan. I'm keeping that girl busy, that's what she needs right now. Keep her mind off it."  
"I know that, but...she ain't like any member of this camp."  
"I know," Miss Grimshaw says, softening. "But take Mrs Adler. Neither was she, now look at her."  
They do: she's giving Micah hell for spilling her coffee.  
Arthur snorts. "Yeah well. Until she becomes a gun-wielding bounty-hunter in her own right, make sure she's alright."  
"I'll keep an eye on her, don't you worry." She pats his arm kindly. "Maybe you are in a position to be giving empathy lessons after all."  
"I don't know about that," Arthur says, more light-heartedly, as he moves away to his horse. "You have a good day, now, Miss Grimshaw."  
"You too, Arthur. Make sure you bring us back some'n to eat!"

That's not really his mission for this morning. Or that night, or the next morning. In fact, he doesn't get back to camp until the next afternoon. Other than cards, why Dutch wanted him for yesterday turned out to be to recruit him for one stagecoach robbery or another, and as per usual, it went to shit. They had to split up, lie low and wait it out before coming back to camp, to save bringing any unwanted attention with them.  
What with the planning and the adrenaline and the gunfire and the speeding away on horseback, he didn't have a whole lot of time or brain-space to think about Elizabeth. But as he arrives back in camp, worry for her re-enters his mind immediately. After hitching his horse he finds himself going straight to his tent to look for her. But the canvas is rolled up, a gaping opening in the front of the tent revealing that its empty.  
"She's down by the water Arthur," Abigail tells him, leading Jack by the hand.  
"Thank you, Abigail."  
"Hi, Uncle Arthur!" Jack enthuses. He's skipping, venturing as far away from his mother as their combined wingspan will allow him.  
"Hey there, Jack," he chuckles, and heads down to the water.  
Elizabeth is sitting on a large rock, very demurely. She looks pretty as a picture, like her mother used to in the rare moments of serenity they had together. As he draws nearer he sees her head is bowed to read the Bible open in her lap.  
"Hey, Miss Linton."  
She stands hastily to greet him, like he is some figure of authority. "Hello, Mr Morgan."  
He gives her a look.  
"Arthur," she says with a small smile. Then, with growing confidence, "Then you must call me Elizabeth."  
"Elizabeth," he says with a smile, tipping his hat. He takes it off as he sits next to her. "How are you holdin' up?"  
She nods, striving to be positive. "Miss Grimshaw makes me feel useful, which is nice."  
"I hope she ain't been working you too hard."  
"Oh, no. I enjoy it. Everyone has been very welcoming."  
"Yeah, we may not scrub up too well but we're alright. We take care of each other."  
Arthur looks out over the water. He's notices that whenever he asks her how she is, refers to the camp, how other people are behaving, not how she feels. He wants to make sure that she's okay, but isn't sure how to do that without making her emotional and he knows he ain't equipped to deal with that. So they sit in relatively comfortable silence, Elizabeth going back to reading her Bible and him enjoying the sun, both of them trying not to think too much about Mary.

  
"The air is so much cleaner here."  
He glances to his left, sees her with her head tilted back, her face towards the sun.  
"Purer." She inhales deeply.  
She exhales, opens her eyes and catches him looking. Suddenly feeling very self-conscious, she looks back down, draws in on herself to somehow take up less room.  
"Ain't many things pure out here but the air sure is," he agrees evenly, to signal that she doesn't need to be embarrassed. "Do you miss the city?" he asks, spotting an opportune opening to the conversation he feels they should have.  
She sighs. A little of the previous contentedness leaves her face. "A little. But more what it used to mean. I miss home, but I don't think that was necessarily the city itself. Does that make any sense?"  
She looks at him for reassurance.  
"Plenty of sense," he sense kindly. "It's what I feel about this place. No matter how often we tear it down or where we set it back up. It's always home."  
Elizabeth nods, looks over her shoulder at camp life. When she turns back round and looks down again, she looks sadder than before.  
"Momma always used to say that. Home ain't nothing but the people."  
She smiles, and it dies as quickly as it came. That last sentence was straight from Mary's mouth, in words and her impression of her which is so true to life it hurts his heart.  
He braces himself against his pain and hers. He's can feel the surge of emotions coming, like a wave about to break. He's not sure about how he's going to weather it. So he connects with her over something he knows they both love.  
"She taught me that too."  
She glances up at him, surprise and hope in her eyes. Mary's eyes.  
He looks away, back out to the water. "Your mother had a lot of things I never had. A big fancy house and fancy clothes. But she didn't care for any of it. She woulda made a great outlaw, just because of that. The house didn't mean nothin' to her unless it was filled with people she loved. Unless it was a home. That's another thing I thought I ain't never had. A home. And if I did have one, I used to always be runnin' from it. She taught me that home is not a place you can run from. It's people. I guess I never did stop runnin', because really...home was her. And I ran from her too. I didn't realise that until it was too late."  
Elizabeth doesn't respond, and when he looks over at her again she's trying to hold back tears.  
"Hey, it's okay," he says gently, a hand on her shoulder.  
She muffles a sob against the hand she has clamped over her mouth.  
"It's okay," he says again. He lets her lean into him and tentatively wraps his arms around her, letting her cry against his chest. "It's alright."  
He ain't much for crying. But her grief does remind him of his own. Yet his is older somehow, more healed. He lost and mourned Mary long, long ago. He mourned not her life but their life together. He mourned the what ifs and the idea of a family. He thought he had seen Mary for the last time many moons ago. Whilst the short-lived hope of their recent encounters does make this new loss sting and ache, it is somehow easier to deal with. He knows this pain, it's familiar.  
For Elizabeth, it's new and fresh and raw.. He can feel that in her fervent sobs, wracking through her small body. The ferocity of her grief. The hole her loss has ripped through her life.  
Whereas his is a reopened scar hers is a gaping wound.  
She gathers herself, remembers herself. Seems more embarrassed than him about her sudden outburst of emotion. "I'm sorry, I..."  
"Don't be apologisin'. Ain't nothin' to be sorry for."  
She sniffs and hurriedly wipes her tears away. But his easiness beside her calms her and her embarrassment fades. "I miss her so much."  
"I do too," he says with a gentle smile. "I gotta tell you...that don't get easier. But like she would have said. She ain't gone nowhere. She's still with you."  
She smiles at him, her eyes still watery. "You're right."  
He bends to picks up her Bible which had fallen to the sand, and hands it to her.  
"Thank you," she says, sniffing again. She pulls out a handkerchief to dab at her face.  
It almost breaks his heart. It's Mary's. Mary's that was his before.  
He stares at it a little too long, but Elizabeth doesn't notice, focussed on wiping the dirt from the covers of her Bible with it.  
"Morgan!" someone yells.  
It breaks him out of his thoughts, and he sighs as he drags himself up and dons his hat.  
Elizabeth looks up at him inquisitively.  
"I gotta go," he says, almost apologetically. "I shouldn't be gone too long. Though I can't promise nothin'."  
She smiles faintly. "Stay safe."  
"You take care," he says, and goes to find out who's demanding his attention this time.

He's back that evening, which is a nice novelty. He joins the others at the campfire, serves himself some stew from the dregs at the bottom of the pot. Javier is strumming his guitar and the others are singing, loosely holding bottles of beer and swaying to the music.  
Jack is giving Abigail hell about having to leave the fun early to go to bed. John passes Arthur his beer as he goes to offer reinforcements.  
"Thanks Marston," Arthur murmurs, but John doesn't seem to hear.  
As he sips, Arthur looks about him, realises there's someone missing. Strange, how quickly she has become part of the camp, a part of home.  
No one pays him much attention as he takes his stew and beer to his tent. It's where he assumes she is and he's proven correct by the soft orange glow of the kerosene lamp spilling out through the canvas, and the gentle crying with it.  
"Elizabeth?"  
"Come in," answers a shaky voice, trying to hide its shakiness.  
"It's just me," he says, ducking inside. "Are you alright?"  
Elizabeth nods, wiping tears away hastily. He's not sure what to do other than sit. She's sat on the edge of the bed so he takes the floor, cross-legged.  
"Would you, err...like some stew?" he offers the bowl fractionally forward.  
"No thank you."  
"Beer?"  
She giggles at that. "No thank you."  
He smiles crookedly. "Alright then." He tucks in, and they sit in silence which is comfortable for him and comforting for her.  
"Is this you?"  
Arthur glances up. Elizabeth's holding out one of the photographs from beside his bed. It's of him and Mary when they were young. It's the only one ever taken, right before they broke off the engagement. When he was still going to marry her and her daddy thought him good enough to.  
"Ah...yeah..." he says, averting his eyes. His tone is more casual than he feels.  
"I'm sorry I didn't mean to pry," she says hastily. "I just found it and I couldn't help but look..." she trails off, gazing at it again. Her apology fades compared to her curiosity and the comfort it brings her. "It's nice to see pictures of Momma when she was young." She smiles fondly, stroking it.  
Arthur takes a swig of beer.  
"You're mighty handsome in this picture."  
He barks out a laugh, almost choking on his drink. "Maybe I was, but even then I don't think so," he laughs.  
"I think you and Momma make a pretty couple," she insists, placing the photograph carefully on the bedside table.  
"Yeah...well..." he says, digging around in his stew. The humour dies, taken over by sad memories of a happier time. "I guess we thought so too. But her daddy didn't quite agree."  
He should probably be a little more polite, given that he's Elizabeth's grandfather, but he can't curb his bitterness.  
"Grandfather?" she says. "He always was a mean, bitter old man." By the sounds of it, there's no love lost there. "I only saw him once a year. He wasn't ever very nice. Momma said it was the drink, but I think drink only brings out the truth in people's hearts."  
"Well said," Arthur says, raising his bottle to her then taking another swig.  
"I'm- I'm sorry I shouldn't be bothering you with all this talk," Elizabeth says, shrinking in on herself.  
"No, no, you're alright. It's...it's nice," he admits, mostly to himself.  
"I thought I'd never be able to say her name again without my heart breaking."  
Doesn't he know that feeling.  
"How was your day, today?" She changes the subject. It's the sort of line that she probably picked up in her lessons of conversational technique or whatever rich girls learn at those places.  
"Just like any other," he says, leaning back. He doesn't go into details. He's not sure she'd like to hear how he threatened a poor family into handing over their last cent. "Ridin' mostly. You ever been on a horse?"  
She shakes her head.  
"Maybe I'll take you out sometime. You'd get to see some country."  
She smiles. "That sounds wonderful."  
"That's settled then."  
The music from the campfire swells and breaks into laughter. Elizabeth looks out at it inquisitively.  
"You wanna go join them?" Arthur asks, standing anyway. "Might be better than sitting on your own."  
With a gracious smile she nods and stands and follows him to the campfire.

Mary-Beth and Tilly immediately invite Elizabeth to join them.  
"We was just sayin' how we reckon we could ride horses way better if we wore men's clothes," Mary-Beth tells her.  
"You can!" Sadie yells from across the circle, provoking some laughter.  
"I stole a man's clothes once," Karen says. "Picked them right up of the floor and walked out with them. Left him with nothin' but what he was born with, if he came out of his momma with ridin' boots! That'll teach him for tryin' to lure me into his bed!"  
The conversation dissolves into shrieks of laughter. He glances at Elizabeth, how she's taking to the less than lady-like talk, but although she's blushing she's grinning mischievously.  
Karen leads the way in a raunchy song, the tune of which Javier quickly picks up and accompanies.  
"Women," Uncle mutters, moving past Arthur in the direction of his favourite wagon wheel.  
In his peripheral vision as he watches him go, Arthur spots Dutch and Hosea, a little ways off, in the shadows where the light and warmth of the campfire don't quite reach.  
With one last look towards the women, where Mary-Beth and Tilly are teaching Elizabeth the words and she's too gleefully shocked to say them, he moves off in their direction.  
"...ine, Dutch."  
"You ain't fine."  
"I'm about as fine as we're gonna be right now."  
"What is that supposed to mean?"  
"Ah, nothing Dutch..." Hosea looks up and like usual sees in Arthur an opportunity to escape. "Ah, Arthur! How are you?"  
"I'm fine," Arthur says, a little wary at what he's just walked in on.  
"And how's Miss Linton settling in?"  
"Okay, I think. Still misses her mother."  
"But of course. And how did the stagecoach robbery go?"  
"About as well as planned."  
"You know, Arthur, I wanted to talk to you about that." Dutch gestures to the chair Hosea has his feet propped up on with his cigar. Hosea moves them and Arthur sits. "How much dynamite you think you stole?"  
"Enough. Why, whatchyou need it for?"  
"Nothing concrete yet."  
"Well it will certainly do some damage to concrete," Arthur says, leaning back.  
Hosea smiles at that.  
"I'm just thinking we could use it for a distraction," Dutch says, missing the humour.  
"A distraction for what, Dutch?"  
"That's the thing, depends on the size of distraction, which depends on the amount of dynamite."  
"Alternatively, you could use it to blow open safes in a bank," Hosea suggests.  
"Or that." Dutch concedes. "It all bears thinking about."  
"Well we got plenty of the stuff. Whole stage load of it."  
"Good, good..." Dutch says absently, the cogs turning in his brain.  
"You any idea what he's planning?" Arthur murmurs to Hosea.  
"Only as much as you," Hosea says good-naturedly. "But when it finally presents itself as a plan to you, you know who will have refined it."  
Arthur chuckles. "That sounds about right."

A commotion behind them distracts them. Arthur turns round in his seat, and realises what he thought was cheering and laughing was shouting all this while. It seems to have escalated into a full-blown argument, everyone on their feet, two factions screaming at each other. He jumps up and strides over, and realises Elizabeth is tucked under Abigail's chin, being held against her chest. The other women are surrounding, defending. John and Charles stand in front of Micah, not so much holding him back, but watching him warily as he sways slightly, hands out ready to stop him. Perhaps even protecting him from the women.  
"...scum!" Karen is yelling the loudest.  
"You're lucky there are so many witnesses around!" Sadie shouts. "I would happily waste a bullet on you."  
"What the hell is going on?" Arthur yells, battling his way to the front.  
"I just asked Miss Elizabeth what she is contributing to the camp," Micah slurs.  
"That is not what happened and you know it Micah Bell!" Karen screams. "You called me a whore!"  
"I just suggested that she goes out with Karen one of these days and earns us some money the Biblical way. I'm sure there be plenty of men who'll pay a good price for her...educated charms." He mocks a bow.  
"What?!" Arthur growls. He steps forward and John steps to meet him, a hand out to his chest stop him. "She's a child!"  
"Oh, are you jealous, Morgan? Don't want to share?" Micah continues striking the nerve.  
Behind him, Arthur hears Abigail gently usher Elizabeth away.  
"Enjoying the company in your tent? Do you have to pay when it's your bed?"  
Arthur shoves John's hand away and this time John let's him square up to the man.  
"Shut your Goddamn mouth, Micah," John tells him.  
"And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you Marston? About sharin'. Getting yours for free."  
Now it is John who turns on him, his upper lip curling. "What did you just say?! What in the hell did you just say?!"  
Charles steps between John and Micah, hands out to separate them. Lenny shifts his weight too, ready to catch one of them. Arthur stands, fists clenched at his side, seething. He wants to punch Micah square in the jaw, especially when he starts laughing. He throws his head back and guffaws at the sky as he swings around unsteadily to leave.

Arthur is suddenly overcome by a flash of rage. Without making the conscious decision to, he roughly barges past the other men to grab Micah by the collar and drags him to the edge of the camp. He throws him against a tree, and pins him hard. "Listen here you rat's tail piece of shit. That girl just lost her mother. Now I know you're sick in the head an' can't but help your filthy degenerate thoughts but you just keep them to yourself." He slams him against the tree trunk again. "You just leave her the hell alone, you hear me? You go near her and I will shoot you right between your beady little eyes."  
"We are protective ain't we, cowpoke," Micah goads him with a sly grin.  
Realising he isn't worth it, and he's only going to rile him up more until he does something really stupid, Arthur shoves him one last time, spitting to the ground as he walks away. He blows out through his cheeks to dispel some of the anger still burning in him.

As he walks back through the centre of camp, he realises Sadie, Karen and Miss Grimshaw were watching the exchange, silently encouraging him.  
"I'd shoot him and laugh if it wouldn't get me kicked out of camp," Sadie says wistfully.  
"I think most of us would thank you for it," Karen tells her. "Miss Grimshaw, how much use are you gettin' out of that shotgun of yours?"  
Miss Grimshaw just shakes her head as she walks away. "And we was all havin' such a nice evenin'."  
"You're a vile, filthy little man, Micah," Karen calls after Micah, who's now staggering towards his tent.  
"Yeah yeah..." he waves her words away as he ducks under the canvas.  
"Was he wrong?" Arthur hears Bill mutter to Pearson as he passes the cards table. "About Abigail I mean."  
Arthur points at him. "You shut the hell up."  
Bill holds his hands up. "I'm just sayin'..."  
"Yeah well don't." Arthur says gruffly, as he walks away.  
Abigail, Tilly and Mary-Beth are all comforting Elizabeth in his tent.  
"Now you just ignore every single word that comes out of Micah Bell's mouth," Abigail is telling her gently but firmly.  
"He ain't good for much," Mary-Beth agrees.  
"If he weren't so good at shootin' Dutch would have thrown him out months ago," Tilly chimes in.  
Arthur ain't so sure that's true anymore, but the man certainly is a liability and has been hauled up for it on many an occasion.  
"Don't pay him no mind," Arthur says, leaning against the tent post.  
Elizabeth looks up at him with a sniff, seeming to heed his words more than most.  
"I'm sorry you had to hear all that," he says.  
"Just when you was settlin' in so nice." Abigail wipes her damp cheeks. "Jack said you read him the most wonderful story."  
She smiles a little at that. "The Three Musketeers."  
"That's the one." Abigail smiles maternally.  
"Oh, that's a great book," Mary-Beth enthuses, eyes lighting up. Arthur thinks she might have found a kindred spirit in young Elizabeth.  
"Girls, why don't we go help Miss Grimshaw tidy and let Miss Elizabeth ready for bed?"  
The three women get up in a mass ruffling of skirts and Arthur muses that his tent ain't never been so busy nor looked so pretty.  
"We're mighty glad to have you here, Miss Elizabeth," Mary-Beth says sincerely. "I hope Micah ain't put you off none."  
Elizabeth shakes her head with a small smile. "Thank you, Miss Abigail, Miss Mary-Beth, Miss Tilly."  
"No need for misses. We're all your friends," Tilly says with a warm smile, and they leave the two of them in the tent.  
Abigail squeezes Arthur's arm as she passes.  
"Thank you," he murmurs to her. "You alright?" he asks Elizabeth. He thinks it not too bold to sit beside her on the cot.  
She nods down at the floor. She seems sad again, and he hopes it isn't just because the women have left her with him. He's not really sure what to say that hasn't already been said, so he just sits quietly and thinks desperately. Eventually she breaks the silence with a tiny trembling voice.  
"I'm not really going to be sent out to...to work, am I?" She can't lift her eyes to him.  
"What? Good Lord no," he says. "We- the women ain't- they-" he stammers. He exhales to steady himself. "We ain't like that. That ain't how we do things. The women rob, just like the rest of us. We'd all shoot a man before letting him touch a hair on anyone's head."  
"Micah said I was just another mouth to feed who better start paying her way."  
"Abigail was right, you just go on and straight ignore every word he's ever said," Arthur says. "Thing is with Micah, he likes running his mouth. He's constantly testin' the rest of us. 'Cept Dutch, 'cause he's too afraid of him. Don't take it too personal, neither. I know that's easier said than done, but..."  
Elizabeth nods, but she doesn't look convinced.  
Arthur looks to the floor, takes a moment or two to work up to saying what he's thinking. When he does his voice is low and quiet. "I promised your mother that I would take care of you. And I intend to make good on that promise. I ain't a good man, but...I can keep a promise. And I reckon maybe...maybe all that won't matter if I can be good to you and your Momma. I ain't going to let anyone hurt you, not ever. I'll protect you."  
He's taken a bit by surprise, almost thrown sideways, when she throws her arms around him and nestles into him. Awkwardly he puts his arms around her, pats her back. He feels the tension melt out of her muscles as she relaxes, and he relaxes too.  
He stays with her until she falls asleep, sits sketching on the floor. She's so shaken he wonders if she would sleep if he weren't there. He pulls the blanket over her and turns out the lamp before he leaves.

He sighs as she sits on one of the logs in front of the now-dying fire, next to John who is staring at the embers. He's so quiet and still Arthur doesn't think he even knows he's there.  
"Micah better be careful or one of these days someone is gonna shoot him," John says. "And that someone might just be me."  
"Get in line." Arthur says gruffly. He sighs again and shakes his head. "She's barely fifteen, John. She's just a girl."  
"Yeah well. Micah ain't never cared too much about who he's offendin'. Unless it's Dutch."  
Arthur snorts. "I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if it is all jus' words. You tell Abigail what he said?"  
John shakes his head. "Don't intend to. For Micah's sake more than mine."  
"Maybe you should. See what she'd do to him."  
John snorts as he stands. "Maybe. G'night, Arthur."  
"Night Marston."  
Arthur stays until the fire has well and truly burnt out before finding his bedroll and laying it out under the sky again. He's still seething; when he sees Micah's face in the morning it's going to take all his God-given strength not to punch him straight in it. But he puts him out of his mind, for now, and thinks over the promise he's made to Mary and to Elizabeth.

It's another so-called plan that sends him on a wild-goose chase on which he meets many various strangers who seem to have the authority to send him on more wild-goose chases. He doesn't get back until late the next night, when the camp fire has been put out and everyone but him, Bill and John is asleep. They mumble goodnights to each other and head to their tents. He doesn't remember that Elizabeth moved out of his that morning but thank goodness she has because, exhausted, he walks there unthinkingly and throws himself on his cot.  
The sound of gun shots has him leaping up the next morning. Revolver in hand, he bursts through the opening in his tent to find the source of the commotion.  
The rest of the camp seem calm, too calm, ridiculously calm in the face of an invasion.  
He processes through his sleep-addled brain that there is a lack of gunfire for a gunfight. The next one makes him jump, but it is a singular one and he can pinpoint it coming from beyond the edge of camp. Wiping sleep out of his eyes he follows the sound and finds Sadie and Elizabeth a good few feet behind Pearson's food wagon, stood facing an arrangement of tin cans lined up on a table.  
"They've been at this all morning," Pearson says, joining him to observe, wiping blood from his hands onto a cloth. "Badgering me about tin cans..." muttering to himself, he goes back to preparing to carve up a deer, caught by Charles, going by its perfect condition. A single small wound in its head and the small trickle of blood from it suggests the handiwork of his bow.  
BANG.  
Arthur jumps again.  
"You got it!" Sadie is cheering on a squealing Elizabeth. "Look at that. You'll be a regular sharp-shooter in no time."  
"Bit early for target practice, ain't it?" he says grumpily, approaching and dampening their celebrations.  
"Not if you got up earlier," Sadie says defiantly, folding her arms. "I thought it about right that a young lady like Miss Linton learns how to protect herself."  
"And I thought it a bad mistake on Miss Grimshaw's part letting you in charge of her," Arthur mutters, leaning against a tree. "You think a pistol and a few cans is good teachin'?"  
"Everyone's got to start somewhere," she says dismissively, turning away from him with full intention of carrying on the lesson. "Don't listen to him, old Tough Boots," she says to Elizabeth.  
But Elizabeth is looking at Arthur worriedly. "We haven't upset you, have we, Arthur?"  
"Upset me?" Arthur is so used to Sadie's (and, to be fair, the other women of the camp's) sass that he's a little surprised at her concern. "Nah, you ain't upset me. Woken me, yes."  
Elizabeth is visibly relieved and she even grins at him.  
"Don't you worry about him, he just likes to be grumpy for the sake of it," Sadie says. Shoulder to shoulder with Elizabeth, they lean in, heads bowed, as Sadie explains the best way to hold the gun steady.  
Arthur swipes a cup of coffee from Pearson and, with nothing better to do for now, sits himself at the bottom of the tree he's leaning against to watch. To be fair to her, given that she is near enough straight off the train from boarding school and then straight off the horse from the city, Elizabeth ain't a bad shot. By the time Pearson has finished with the deer, she has shot all but one can from the table.  
"Out of bullets," Sadie says. "That one is really gonna annoy me. Arthur, care to do the honours?"  
Without moving anything but his arm, Arthur takes out his gun and shoots the can dead-centre in one fluid motion.  
"Show-off," Sadie says.  
"You asked!" he protests.  
"A few more lessons and we'll show him."  
Elizabeth giggles at that.  
"Oh great, a few more early mornin' battles with cans," Arthur groans as he pulls himself up. "Can't wait for that."  
"Keep talkin' like that and you'll be lucky to see any more mornin's at all!"  
"Yeah whatever," he laughs, waving a dismissive hand as he lumbers away. "Crazy woman."  
He can hear Elizabeth laugh behind him, so hard that she makes herself cough. In reality he is glad that she is immersing herself in the ways of the camp, keeping herself occupied and her spirits up, and yes, it probably is good that she learns a few skills necessary for survival in this life, no matter how short her time in it. He's just not so sure how he feels about Sadie, who's state of mind he has seen in many new lights recently, being the one to teach her how to wield a gun. In his experience, Sadie wields hers wild and trigger-happily.

Over the next few days he sees Elizabeth learn how to craft arrows with Charles, discuss books with Mary-Beth, embroider a new handkerchief with Abigail, assemble a tent in under two minutes with Miss Grimshaw, and make a meal out of nothing with Pearson.  
It comes to his attention, as the days draw into weeks, that even when they have plenty more than nothing, no matter how much food they give her, she only seems to be getting thinner.  
"I tried getting her to take some extra bread, but she said she didn't want to be takin' an unfair share from the camp," Miss Grimshaw tells him. "She might do us a favour and be teachin' those manners to some of the boys."  
Together they figure that she was always slim, and perhaps it is the stress of a new environment, this one at that, and food being more sparse and less rich than she's used to, that is causing her to clothes to fit a little looser.  
The women of the camp have really taken her under their wing. Miss Grimshaw is still keeping her busy but chats to her like a kindly old aunt. In fact, in the snippets of conversations he hears Arthur learns more about Susan Grimshaw than he has done in her whole time with the gang. Karen, Mary-Beth and Tilly take her to town (escorted by Arthur) to show her how they sneak into the most high-end shops to dress up. He feels it must be lost on her; these are the sort of establishments she was used to frequenting. But she seems to take a thrill out of it, out of being sneaky and crafty. Leaning against the wall of the barber's across the street, he watches as they burst out of the shop in peals of laughter and spill out onto the road. He allows himself a smirk at the sight, and the sound of genuine laughter, before quickly scouting up and down the road again to make sure there's no trouble.  
Giggling, the girls stumble up to him.  
"Hey, Arthur," Karen says, mock flirtatiously.  
"Did you ladies have a good time?"  
"We got what we came for," Karen says, and they all share conspiring grins.  
"It'll be delivered to the hotel on Friday," Mary-Beth says and they all start laughing again.  
Elizabeth, so hard that she starts coughing. It lasts far longer than the laughter does, and they all grow quiet and watch her hack up her lungs. Tilly steps forward to take her arm, patting her on the back.  
"Come on let's get home," Arthur says brusquely, eyes flicking over her, and leading the way back to the wagon.  
That's the first moment that he entertains the idea of something not being right.  
"Arthur..." Karen says to him in an aside, as they watch Mary-Beth and Tilly help Elizabeth onto the wagon.  
He cuts her off as he climbs up to take the reins. "I know."

Perhaps because his stints out of camp start becoming more frequent and for longer periods of time, he seems to notice more and more a deterioration in his ward. He'll leave the camp and when he returns, however many days later, see a bigger difference in her than the others, though they, too, notice that something isn't all well.  
It's one night, after a long haul running errands for Dutch and Hosea and collecting debts for Strauss, that he notices she's not around the campfire.  
"She's in her tent," Abigail tells him quietly. "Has been all afternoon."  
He might think that understandable after the last time the whole camp were assembled together, but something about the way Abigail says it has him thinking otherwise. He finds Miss Grimshaw sat by Elizabeth's cot, coaxing her to eat some of the stew from the pot over the fire.  
"You must try, dear," Miss Grimshaw is saying, holding out a spoon full of the steaming stew.  
"I really am grateful Miss Grimshaw, truly, and I don't mean to be rude in declining but I just can't stomach it at present."  
Miss Grimshaw's brow creases in concern and sympathy.  
"It's okay, Miss Grimshaw. Why don't you go sit with the others?"  
Miss Grimshaw looks up, unable to hide that she is a little relieved. Her grey hair is wispier than usual; she looks tired, like she's been doing a hundred and one other things as well as looking after a stubborn if polite patient. That is probably true: Susan Grimshaw is often times the only one keeping the camp together.  
She hands Arthur the stew and he takes her place on the stool.  
"You get some rest, Miss Linton," she says, a hand on his shoulder.  
"Thank you Miss Grimshaw. For everything. I really don't mean to be ungrateful."  
"I know, dear, I know," she smiles kindly and leaves them to it.  
"You not feelin' too good?" Arthur asks, keeping his tone upbeat. She isn't looking too good either. He doesn't like the look of her pale, gaunt face. Not at all.  
She smiles faintly at him. "Not a whole lot of good, no. You've been gone a long time," she says, to change the subject.  
"Ah, only a few days. Done longer stretches than this," he says casually, stirring the stew absently, not about to let her get away with it that easy. "Miss Grimshaw's right, you really should try to eat some'n."  
"I know but I really can't-" she is cut off by coughing.  
Downing the stew on the nightstand, he eases her up to sitting. Under his hand he feels her back heaving, coughs wracking through her small body. The ferocity of her cough scares him. He imagines the holes they are ripping through her lungs.  
She catches a lot of it in her handkerchief, which she quickly stuffs under the blanket.  
"You don't sound too good..." he says. He doesn't dare give voice or even thought to the fear slowly rising up in him. "Maybe we should get you to a doctor."  
She shakes her head vehemently. "No, no I'll be fine. I'm okay. Really."  
"Elizabeth, I really think-"  
"No doctor." her voice gets smaller but her meaning more intense. "Please."  
He sighs. "I'll make you a deal. You eat some of this stew and I won't take you to a doctor tonight."  
She sighs too, clears her throat from the last of whatever is ailing her. "Deal." She holds out her hands for the bowl, not about to let him spoon-feed her.  
He really wishes he didn't notice the specks of blood on her hand.

 

He is almost afraid to leave her.  
The next morning he goes straight to her tent, is relieved and concerned in equal measure to see her up and about.  
"Morning," she says cheerily, almost too cheerily.  
"Mornin'," he says warily.  
"I was going to walk along the shore, take in some of the air. Would you care to join me?" It's more confident, more upbeat than it was but her tone has the same polite formality to it as it did when they first met. She was hiding something then too, and this time it isn't just her emotions.  
"Sure," he says, still wary. But perhaps the air will do her some good.  
"Are all your camp's in a place like this?" Elizabeth asks, admiring the view of the sun glinting off the water.  
"We ain't always so lucky, no," Arthur says. He often forgets to appreciate the beauty of his surroundings. For him environment is just terrain and he sees it in terms of survival, of habitability. The water he sees first and foremost as a good source for the camp, not the pretty glittering thing he sees when he sees it through her eyes.  
A little ways off, the calm beauty of it is disrupted by John and Jack splashing in the water. John raises a hand hello, and Arthur gives a lazy salute in return. Beaming and breathless, Jack comes bounding out of the shallows and up to them.  
"Hi Uncle Arthur! Hi Miss Elizabeth!"  
"Hi Jack," she laughs. "Oh, you've got mud on you." She takes her handkerchief out and wipes off a few splashes of mud splattered on his cheek.  
It's only because he took such notice of it last time that Arthur notices this isn't the same one.  
"Can we finish the story soon, Miss Elizabeth?" Jack asks. "The one about France?"  
"Of course," she smiles.  
"Jack!" John calls.  
"Bye Uncle Arthur, bye Miss Elizabeth!" he says, and bounds off again.  
They both smile as they watch him splash back into the water.  
"He's a good kid," Arthur says.  
"So funny," Elizabeth giggles, tucking her handkerchief away.  
"That's a nice handkerchief."  
What he really wants to do is ask where the other one has gone, but that might sound strange.  
She holds up its replacement. "Abigail gave me some thread to do this."  
In the corner she has stitched four perfect letters: E.M.M.L.  
"Your initials?" he asks.  
She nods. "Elizabeth Mary Morgan Linton."  
That knocks him for six.  
She seems to understand the significance of her middle names. The meaning they hold for him. Her voice lingers, lets them hang gently in the air.  
But they don't address it explicitly. They just keep walking in a silence less comfortable than before. Until the air, however pure, becomes too sharp for her lungs and she has to return to camp to sit by the fire to warm herself.  
"You really should see a doctor." Arthur murmurs quietly. "It won't take long. I'll take you."  
"No, Arthur." she says, sounding as confident and defiant as he's ever heard her. He glances at her, a little surprised. The fire reflects in her eyes, Mary's eyes. "I know what they'll tell me, anyway." she whispers.  
His breath catches. He knows too. He gets the feeling they've both known for a little while now but neither of them have wanted to say it. To make it real.  
Now she has and he feels like it's his lungs that are going to burst.  
This is too much. Too big a blow. His shoulders hunch. He feels the world's weight on them.  
"I'm sorry."  
"What for?"  
"This," he straightens and gestures to her. His voice comes out a little harsh, from the emotion he can't quite control. "Guess it's the one thing I can't protect you from."  
She smiles slightly, and leans into him, holding on tightly to his arm.  
"Momma was right, you are a good man."  
He bows his head, squeezing his eyes tight.

 

That was the last time he saw her properly.  
He's furious because he wastes a whole evening at some stupid stuffed-up party and then another duping some rich assholes on a boat. And it's after that, when he returns, that he hears the news.  
Karen comes rushing up to him the moment he steps foot in camp, but when she opens her mouth, she has nothing to say. Mary-Beth and Tilly look up at him sadly as he passes them then go back to their work. It looks like Mary-Beth's been crying. Even Sadie don't have any sass to give him. Lenny looks like he wants to say something. Charles gives him a sympathetic look and John averts his eyes. Micah wisely avoids him. Abigail takes him gently by the hand and leads him to Elizabeth's tent.  
Miss Grimshaw is sat beside Elizabeth once again, but this time just watching over her still and pale body. Her breaths are long and slow and shallow. They sound painful, wheezing, like jar full of pins. Seeing him enter, Miss Grimshaw stands, looks at him apologetically.  
"I'm sorry, Arthur," she whispers as she leaves.  
He can't bear to look at her face but can't do anything but. She has reminded him of her mother since the first day they met. And in this moment she still looks exactly like her. Exactly like she did when she died.  
He sits with her for hours. When it gets dark he opens the drawer of her bedside table for matches for the lamp.  
He almost throws up.  
Mary's handkerchief, handed down to Elizabeth, stained with blood from the disease she gave to her daughter too.  
He slams the drawer shut.  
The noise wakes her, and he is guilty and relieved in equal measure.  
"Arthur," she rasps.  
"Hey."  
"I'm...I'm sorry..." She starts coughing. He helps her sit up, and reaches for water whilst she's coughs into her handkerchief. "I'm sorry you are seeing me like this," she says, accepting the cup.  
"No more of that." he murmurs, watching her drink.  
She hands it back and settles down onto her bed. Thinking of something, she sits up, starts rifling through the drawer he just slammed. She doesn't seem to take any notice of the handkerchief, flicking it out of the way. Whatever she wants isn't in there. She leans down as far as her frail body will allow to search for something under her bed.  
"What are you looking for?" Arthur asks, but even as he does her bony fingers wrap around the book's spine and bring it up.  
"Will you give this to Jack?" she asks, holding it out to him.  
He stares at her, then down at it. A beautiful pale blue cover, emblazoned with a gold title. The Three Musketeers.  
"Sure." He says quietly, taking it from her cold pale hands.  
She smiles, and satisfied, leans down again. He swallows hard, gripping the book tight, trying to blink back tears before they come.  
"Arthur?"  
"Mm?"  
"Thank you."  
"I ain't done nothin' in need of thanks," he says, voice hoarse.  
"You were kind to me. And you were kind to Momma. I know she loved you." Her slim shoulders shake as she coughs again. "She spoke about you a lot. And now I know why. It's been nice to finally meet you, Arthur Morgan."  
She smiles again, coughs gently. Her eyes are slipping closed with each breath, until finally they flutter closed.  
His heart is breaking, again, along the same fissure line as before.

Elizabeth's funeral is held in the same church as her mother's. The churchman valiantly hides his surprise at the bunch of misfits that come to pay their respects. Jamie, Mary's brother, is there. He's devastated. Mary's letter was months late getting to him. He had no idea all this time. He thanks Arthur profusely, which Arthur doesn't really want to hear. Jamie offers to pay for the costs of the funerals, both of them, but Arthur waives them. Money is starting to matter less to him now. Besides, if Dutch is right, this bank job they got coming up will more than set him up for life.  
He only knew Elizabeth a few weeks. He thinks perhaps it is because of Mary and the promise he made that he grew so attached to her. Or perhaps he just doesn't want to admit that his heart is so open to anything that isn't a bullet.  
Whilst the others head back to camp, patting his shoulder as they leave him, he stares at the fresh mound of earth and a second cross. He adds it to the list of graves he will visit.  
Little does he know there's about to be a whole lot more.


End file.
